


Despicable Me

by buried_in_glasz, gREat_unreST



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, But a cat will do, Crack, Crack ahoy, Fluff, Gen, Issues ahoy!, Loki Needs a Hug, Odin's A+ Parenting, depowered!Loki, so much crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:16:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buried_in_glasz/pseuds/buried_in_glasz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gREat_unreST/pseuds/gREat_unreST
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-avengers AU. In which there is an unhealthy mix of angst and crack, and a cat does what the Avengers could not: tame a vengeful God.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is our NanoWrimo lovechild. Which has only one chapter so far. We kept editing the first chapter that we almost just gave up at one point.
> 
> Warning: crack. So much crack. Except for the beginning.

With an indignant splutter, Loki bursts onto the deserted street of New Mexico in a cloud of green smoke. The shredded remains of his cape tangle around him as he tumbles head over heels. His dented armour scrapes along the sand, jarring his shoulder painfully, and he sprawls to a stop on the ground. The disgusting taste of grit fills his mouth.

Taking on the Avengers probably wasn’t a good idea. Ever since he narrowly escaped capture after the Battle of New York, he hasn’t been in top shape. Having to evade both the Chitauri and Earth’s Peskiest Heroes, while dealing with the injuries dealt by that despicable green abomination, has left his magic strangely depleted. He has had worst injuries before though: had his skin dissolved by acid one drop at a time, slept with a horse (the bruises took ages to heal), fell off the Bifrost into unseen chaos. But every time he brushes off the pain and shame, bounces back with more mischief and tricks. This time -

_"No, Loki."_

should have been -

_burning scorching falling. no sound but screams. no end but stops. above around below him the touch of unravelling skin. crawl hide lash out but no one hears him._

no different.

That's what he told himself when he took on five of the Avengers at once. He meant to get in and out of the vault with no hitches. Not that he couldn't just teleport in, but going in the old-fashioned way was more energy conserving. He was cloaked the entire time so not even the security cameras could trace him. All the humans would know was that their precious device disappeared into thin air. They may have thought that an alien from another realm wouldn't understand Midgardian technology. What they still haven't realise is that the humans themselves were their security's weakest link.

Spitting out sand, Loki carefully picks himself off the ground and revises that thought. It was utterly shameful that the most infuriating four humans plus one demigod cornered him like an animal. His muscles are sore from blocking attacks, but his fists clench so hard that it leaves eight small gouges on his palms. The Hulk wasn't there but Thor's presence made up for it. The Asgardian's lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he looked at Loki with an indiscernible expression, after knocking down the God of Mischief with Mjölnir. Loki was horrified to find that he could barely get back on his feet. He felt completely drained, as if someone had skewered him full of holes and wringed him dry of energy. Dread rising, he desperately reached for his magic and casted what should had been a simple healing spell. It trickled from his fingers before the surface wounds could close. Realisation hit him of how little he had recovered since New York.

But he was more appalled at Thor's indecisiveness. The demigod again wore a reluctant expression which was so irritating that Loki had to provoke him. However before he could let loose his taunts, Thor charged forward and swung at him. Mjölnir was lightning fast as its wielder struck left, swiped up from his lower right, swept down, feinted an uppercut and kicked him in the abdomen. The heavy blows dented his amour with the sickening ease of rock striking clay, rattling his bones. His breath left him as swiftly as his magic did. But there was still an underlying restraint in Thor's attacks, which Loki couldn't discern if it originated from the awareness that they were fighting in an enclosed area, or that he couldn't bring himself to-

How dare the Aesir still treated him like he could be saved. Loki snarled and began to fight back in earnest, twin daggers in hand and bursts of magic shooting out when he strained himself. But even without their mindless green monster, the Avengers outnumbered him five to one. And underneath the sudden surge of anger, he was still aware that he needed to conserve magic for his escape, if the situation really came down to it.

"Brother, you cannot keep running away from your crimes."

Thor spoke in an uncharacteristically soft voice to which Loki would have immediately responded by exploding that galling face, if he wasn't struggling to remain upright in the first place. The other Avengers stayed back, as if this was something between the two brothers. The corner of his vision began to dim. He could not stay any longer.

"Oh Thor, sentiment has always been your weakness." His voice felt faint to his ears. He bit his lip, dredged up the very last of his magic, and teleported out. He made it to New Mexico on the second try.

-

The town where Loki lies low in is quiet. Most of the day people stay inside their houses, shops and schools. No one bothers each other, which is precisely the reason why Loki has chosen this place to stay off the radar. Some time after New York, he stumbled across the rundown shack sitting unassumingly at the corner of the town, suggested the owner to sell it and made some renovations. Now it still looks rundown and uninviting, but inside it is warm, cosy and covered in furniture of green and gold.

Loki is two streets away from safe haven when the sky rebels and bawls. Storm clouds roll in from nowhere and empty their load onto the parched land below. Lighting tears through the gloom like crooked blades. Loki is only two streets away from safe haven and already wet as a drowned cat.

He's so shocked that he is frozen to the spot. It's as if the Thunder God himself orchestrated this. He cannot believe how ridiculous the situation is.

"Curse you, Thor," he says.

-

Jane jumps slightly when the sky cracks open. She turns towards Thor, who arrived half an hour ago in her apartment and is currently sitting at her countertop staring into his mug of lukewarm chocolate.

 ____"____ Thor, now I can hardly believe you're alright when the weather's like this."

His response is to stare deeper (sulkily) into his mug.

Jane can already sense what - or who - is causing this dip in his mood. She sits down beside him and patiently waits for him to open up, the low murmur of the radio filling up the silence.

_____"____...sudden thunderstorms sweeping across New Mexico...This is the most bizarre weather since..." _

______-_ _ _ _ _ _

Wounded, bruised and drenched, Loki knows he must make a miserable picture, trudging sulkily in the rain towards his house. A shiver passes through Loki that is not from the cold, and the hair on the back of his head stands up. He narrows his eyes.

_His godly senses are tingling._

He freezes. His mind is dulled by exhaustion, and he did not stop to think that his enemies could ( _would_ ) take advantage of his condition to take him down. He would not put it past the Black Widow to put a tracker on him for SHIELD to follow and launch an ambush when he is unaware. His mind automatically running through his escape routes, he turns around warily, fully expecting to see Thor behind him with that wounded look on his puppy face. Finally, this rivalry between them will be ended once and for all. Thor will have his glory, and he the honour of dying a warrior's death. His body shifts instinctively into a fighting stance, legs stepping away from each other and tensed arms held out in a mockery of an embrace.

The streetlamps flickered, briefly illuminating the empty street. Loki's fingers curl in towards his palm, and he straightens up, feeling foolishly paranoid.

Now that he is focusing, he can sense the intruder behind the door, every brush of their feet on the floor sending a shudder down his spine. With his magic depleted, he is defenceless, and it would be an opportune moment for SHIELD to ambush him in his own home. Craving the reassuring weight of his sceptre, he grabs the nearest object, raises it high and kicks the door open.

In retrospect, it wasn’t quite the dramatic entrance he was going for. He has to admit, he must look quite silly, sprinkled all over with sand like frosting, his armour scuffed up and hanging off him in bits of scrap metal and brandishing a pink granny umbrella. At least that’s how he tries to justify the moment, because that cat should not look so unimpressed with him, the God of Mischief and king of drama.

It has clambered on to his sofa, and, despite its waterlogged fur and muddy paws, is perched regally in the middle of it, gingerly lapping at its paw. One eye is milky white and crisscrossed with leathery scars, but it lifts its head to fix him with a piercingly golden gaze. Soaking wet, the calm swishing of its tail leaves a long trail of mud and water on the leather of his couch, and its paws have left muddy paw prints all over the floor.

It is also covered completely in bright blue fur.

Loki is aware that his mouth is hanging open in a completely undignified manner. Never in all his years of travel has Loki ever encountered an animal with blue fur on Midgard before. The blue of the car's coat was the colour of the sky, impossibly similar to the skin of Jötunn. It looks unnatural, and one look at the shade of it sent an unpleasant shudder down his spine. Loki squints against the blinding colour. Now that he takes another look, the cat looks piteously malnourished, its drenched state making its sinuous body look impossibly thin-

No. He will not submit. He is the God of Mischief, the master of disguises, and he will not be so pathetic as to be easily swayed by a cat. Loki grits his teeth. He lifts his arm and points at the open door with the umbrella.

'Out.'

If the cat had eyebrows, Loki had no doubt that it would be cocking them scornfully at him right now. It turns away from him in a gesture of clear dismissal and returns to cleaning its fur. For the first time in a thousand years, Loki is stunned speechless. He has not been ignored like that since he was a young boy and was constantly left behind by Thor and his little band. Odin also had a tendency to forget about him, no matter how much he prattled on about fairness and love, too busy spoiling his eldest son to even remember that Loki existed, that hypocritical bastard.The reminder of the Allfather angers him. He glares at the cat, and it returns the look lazily, sprawled across the cushions as though the couch was its throne.

 _Mine._ Loki returns from a battle, his head held high despite his injuries, and his foe dares to challenge what is his by right? Lips curling back hatefully, a snarl rips itself from his throat and he swipes at the cat with the umbrella.

Considering the fact that he possesses superior strength and reflexes, a mere beast of Midgard should not have been able to survive in a fight against him. He can already visualise it in his mind: the cat sees the advancing weapon and tries to run like the coward it truly is, but no one can escape the wrath of Loki.The umbrella slams into its head, swift but brutal, and kills the cat instantly, leaving him to stand victorious over the body of his enemy and returning to the welcoming arms of his people - the couch. But with surprisingly quick reflexes, the cat leaps over the slicing tip of the umbrella on to the windowsill, curls up comfortably, and, if it is possible, turns to look at him with an even more unimpressed expression than before.

Loki looks down at the smattering of blue fur on the floral fabric in silent astonishment. The umbrella is stretched out in the air, hovering over the couch where the indent in the cushions is still fading. A ring of fur is left behind where it sat not one second ago, staking its claim on the couch like a dog marking its territory.

A vein in his forehead throbs. He blinks and looks back at the cat, and emerald eyes clash with white and amber in a show of territorial aggression. 

The cat purrs, a challenge that resounds deep in its chest, and something in Loki snaps. And then they're off, leaping over furniture and knocking over anything in their reach. Loki swings his umbrella around in circles like a mad granny, every crash that broke something making him angrier by the second. The cat is little more than a blur of blue flying through the air around him, nimbly avoiding his fierce blows and getting in a few swipes of its own when it manages to get close enough to him. His eyes fixate on the cat and whirls around and around, tattered cape flying out behind him like the wings of an avenging angel, the umbrella slashing through the air again and again as he tries to take down his enemy-

There is a tug around his legs and they snap together. Years of training with Thor and the Warriors Three have taught him to be nimble on his feet, and he's long grown out of his lankiness. It will not do for a Prince of Asgard to trip over his own cape in front of the commoners, after all, and it throws him so much that he freezes in place. Befuddled, he looks down, and just barely gets a glimpse of the curtain tiebacks wound tight around his calves before he falls flat on his face. He lands on his bruised ribs and a pained groan escapes him involuntarily.

The cat prowls across the floor to the space beside his head and plops its furry butt down, preening smugly at its defeat of the evil green man.

'Alright,' Loki sighs into the floor, his mouth squished against the muddy rug. 'You win. See if I care.' He untangles himself as gracefully as he can in a last attempt to salvage his dignity, and trudges back to his bedroom to lick his wounds. The cat purrs after him in contentment.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Loki registers is pain. 

Every breath he takes stretches his skin taut, tearing at the edges of the scabs of his wounds, and sends a wave of throbbing agony down his side. His legs feel as though the Hulk had tap-danced on them and crushed them with his weight. There is a headache hammering away at his head - he swears he can feel his skull reverberating beneath his skin. Reflexively, he reaches out for his magic, a feat that feels as easy and natural as breathing. 

He crashes into a mental wall, and the force leaves his head swimming and his headache ten times worse than a second ago. Blinking away the black spots in his vision, he reaches out again - tentatively this time, already knowing what must have happened but afraid of confirming the truth. This time he brushes lightly against the barrier, but the unexpected emptiness is staggering. 

His magic has been the only constant in his life - all through the loneliness and loss and pain and death, it healed him and kept him company and gave his life purpose, and he has gotten accustomed to its steady thrumming in the back of his head. Magic is who he is. Thor's precious Midgard, with the whirs of its unnatural machines and the humans' incessant prattering, is a lifeless realm to his muffled senses. He feels as though he is falling through the Void once again, thrown into chaos and nothingness all at once, and a rare moment of terror strikes him. 

What worth has a Trickster without his spells, a monster deserted by even his own power? 

He tries to push himself off the bed, but his legs collapse beneath him, and he falls face flat on the floor again. 

The door creaks open ominously. Grabbing the edge of his bed, he pulls himself up and peers over the sheets. The cat is standing in the doorway, lazily whipping its tail to and fro like a hypnotist would his watch, and the glint in its eyes is far too gleeful for Loki's liking. 

Why is the cat still here? There's nothing here that it could want. His house is in the middle of nowhere; that fact alone should be a clue that he doesn't want company. He has no need for a pet. He is a god, the most evil villain in all of the Nine Realms, and he's busy planning and carrying out evil deeds against this puny planet and her pain-in-the-ass defenders. The cat is just like the Aesir, always poking their nose about in other people's business and thinking themselves above everyone else. 

'What are you looking at?' he snaps, thoroughly fed up with the cat's existence. 'Get out!' 

The cat's reaction is eerily human-like. Drawing itself up, it takes on an offended air and glared balefully at Loki before turning to strut back out into the hallway, wagging its furry end imperiously in the air. Hooking its back paw around the edge of the door, it aims a last indignant sniff at Loki before kicking the door shut with a delicate paw. 

Loki rolls his eyes at its dramatic antics and gingerly makes his way after it through the door. With his magic gone, he will have to rely on his natural healing abilities, and it will be a long and arduous process even with an Aesir's enhanced body. [insert more words] 

He fiddles with the tap, but the first stab of cold water is still as surprising and unpleasant as ever. He closes his eyes and tilts his head up into the spray. If he closes his eyes, he can almost taste Thor's fury again as they exchange blows, rain battering his weary body even as it reenergizes his brother. The water hammers at the mottled purple-and-black that decorates his skin, and he turns it up even further, feeling the strength of Thor's grip around his neck in the water's heavy pressure on his skin. One easy twist of his wrist and he would have been dead at Thor's feet, and his name the latest addition to Thor's long list of conquests. The Allfather would no doubt have been pleased by his death. He is a Jötunn, a traitor, an outcast, and his life is of little significance. 

He hates that Thor is so weak of heart. 

xxx 

_The not-hooman is sad._

_The stench of his angst is like a fart that refuses to disperse. It clings to its majestic fur, seeping under its coat and making it lick itself maniacally just to dampen the smell._

_It doesn't like it when he's sad. He's only amusing when he's acting all sniffy and flouncy, as though he owns the place instead of the cat. Who is going to entertain it, now that the not-hooman is wallowing self-centeredly?_

_It peeps through the crack in the door and – THERE! The most clawable targets in existence. It settled on its haunches, wriggled its furry end eagerly as its eyes fixated on its prey, and sprang -_

'AAAAAAHHHH! YOU @#$%#%$&^$%&^(*^ %^@#$@#$%Y &^%&$#% #$!' 

_It chirps evilly to itself as it races out of the bathroom. It's not its fault if non-hoomans can't even protect their butts adequately._

xxx 

Loki pokes his head out of the bathroom. 

The hallway is silent. The curtains are still. All the doors are closed. Not a single blue hair is in sight. 

Cautiously, Loki eases his body through the gap in the door. Keeping his eyes carefully on the ground for the enemy, he tiptoed out into the corridor and ran for his life. 

'MEEEEOOOOOOOOOW!' 

Paws skidding on the floor, the cat slides into view and leaps towards Loki with claws outstretched. Loki yelps and jumps into the air to dodge the small but deadly sword-like projections, but - alas! - his feeble attempts at self-defense are in vain, for the cat does a barrel roll and slashes five neat lines into the soft skin of his calves before disappearing into the dark and mysterious unknown beneath the sofa. 

Loki growls. He marches bravely into the enemy's territory, kneels down and glares into the defiant eyes floating in the dark. 

'Stop!' He bellows, shoving his finger into the cat's face. "You are beneath me, you foul feline! I am a god, and I will not be bullied by aAAAAAHHHHH!' 

The cat's eyes dilate when the trickster's fingertip waves in front of its nose like a juicy fly. It wriggles its bottom and strikes like a viper, entrapping the feeble prey in its strong jaws. Which is how Loki finds himself with a missing chunk of flesh in his finger, scooped clean out with the dagger-like fangs of his foe and bleeding sluggishly on to the floor. 

'I shall name you Odin,' Loki pronounces with all the dignity befitting a (disgraced and exiled) prince of two realms. 'Because the hatred and disgust I feel for you is as intense and enduring as that I bear for the Allfather.' 

The cat's eyes narrow in satisfaction. 'Meow.'

Loki snarls. 'Do not talk back to me, feline!'

He grabs the box of band aids he abandoned just minutes ago and flounces back into the bathroom indignantly to lick his newest wounds, defeated yet again in battle by the Mighty Blue Cat. The feline settles down to lick the copper tang of blood from its fangs. _No weird not-hooman could ever beat me in combat,_ it thinks, purring smugly in satisfaction.


	3. Chapter 3

A week passes and Loki's magic still shows no signs of returning. 

In this span of time, Odin has evolved from mild annoyance to satanic beast. Not only has it thwarted his every attempt to contain it, but also left long, scraggly scratches on his favourite leather armchair, covered his pillow with disgusting blue fur every night, _even after he started hiding it,_ and pushed his coffee mug off the kitchen countertop right in front of him. The pen in his hand crunches as he recalls how the blue beast stared at him with those infuriatingly judgmental eyes and nudged his mug over the edge. That should have been the last straw. He should have wrung that scrawny neck and dumped the carcass on the street. Instead, he chased it around like a fool and gave up when it mysteriously disappeared. 

It is unimaginable that he lets himself be so affected by the rascal's mockery. He grew up in a warrior culture learning the feminine arts of sorcery. Nearly a thousand years of enduring Thor and his friends' mindless jabs at Loki's masculinity has taught him laugh them off, or resort to trickery if they got too far. Yet now the antics of a Midgardian mortal is enough to break his self-restraint? 

His fingers tap an impatient rhythm against his notes as he stews in his thoughts. Not once has he been himself since Odin invaded his abode. First he tolerates its presence instead of throwing it out, then stoops to argue with it as if it were an equal, and now deigns to engage in this petty feud between them! As satisfying as dumping that pest into a tub of water is, this is far from his usual collected self, who would never allow himself to be bested by inferior beings. What is so remarkable about this cat, to make him lose control over his emotions as if under a spell… 

The pen clatters onto the notes scattered all over his table. A non-magical being weaving a working as complicated as mind control – the idea is preposterous! 

...assuming Odin is non-magical. 

He did not even think to check. This being waltzes passed his barriers, disappears in impossible places, and he just accepts it as normal Midgardian feline. Stupid, stupid! Seven days of such abnormal behaviour and he has not felt suspicious once. Either his recuperation is affecting him more than he realises, or there is something wrong with Odin. 

He stalks through the shack for a good ten minutes before finding Odin asleep on his bed, in the room he checked thoroughly for the little pest before locking the door this morning. The alarm bells that has been going off in his mind only grows louder. His footsteps are silent as he approaches the blue ball of fur and slowly places his hand against its side. Even if with his powers blocked, his innate sensitivity to magic can even detect concealed or dampened magic signatures, especially with proximity and concentration. He has once picked out a glamoured imposter out of a banquet of hundreds just by scanning the hall from a vantage point. Even at his weakest, he could always rely on his sensor abilities. 

The very abilities that tell him that this devious, blue hellion is a perfectly normal, albeit dyed, and entirely non-magical Midgardian feline. 

He cannot believe this. He checks again and again, but there is literally nothing abnormal about Odin. Neither can he sense any bindings around his mind. But in his weakened state, can he reliably detect subtler enchantments? 

Consumed in his thoughts, he does not notice Odin has woken until he feels a rough, wet texture drag across the back of his hand. His arm snaps back. Odin tilts its head towards him, a flash of red slipping back into its mouth. 

He stares at the slimy coating on his hand. 

Did it. Just. _Lick_ him? 

The implication of such an action does not escape him. He would expect it from his favourite Kjorer stag, or the domesticated horses of the Asgardian royal stables, but from this wild beast, which has trespassed on his territory and disrupted his recuperation, which he has similarly shown no mercy to? He is confounded, he is enraged, he is... 

Deeply unsettled by the growing warmth in his chest. 

Odin jumps down from the bed, yawns wide to reveal the white little fangs that have brought him so much shame, and stretches to and forth, unbothered by his inner turmoil. He tenses as it moves towards him, but what he has been expecting is certainly not the blue beast curling between his legs and rubbing the ear closest to him against his trousers. A deep rumbling sound almost like a boiling water kettle fills the room, and he realises it is coming from Odin, currently smearing its scent and fur all over his lower legs. 

He does not know what to think. Back in Asgard, creatures similar to this Midgardian feline treated him like this only after he began looking after them, so why would Odin do so when he has never given it any reason for such attention? 

Odin makes its fifth circuit before it sits down between his legs and starts washing itself with its paw. A calm blank settles over Loki's mind as he reaches down to touch its head. The fur around its ears are a lighter blue than its forehead, and it gradually darkens around the snout and mouth, contrasting with the white, long whiskers that his fingers brush against. Odin alternates between pushing its wet nose into his palm and licking him, the rumbling noise growing louder with each twist of its head. 

By the time Odin is done with its attention, Loki finds himself kneeling on the ground with a small smile on his face and a comforting warmth in his chest.  


xxx 

A truce seems to have settled between Loki and Odin. 

The cat has noticeably toned down its provocation, or at least substituted it with daily circuits between Loki’s legs, scent marking and silently following him from room to room. Most of the time he holes up in the makeshift library, scouring through his collection of tomes on magical theory and application for a way to accelerate his recuperation. He does not expect to find a solution in these texts he have practically internalised over the centuries, but his scholarly nature insists on the reading. 

He also has nothing better to do. 

As he hunches over the tomes spread all over the table, the cat never fails plump itself down precisely at the corner of his vision, no doubt a statement that even with their shaky truce, it still delights in unsettling him. He resolutely ignores what almost looks like a glint of concern in those beady mismatched eyes. After all, life forms as unsophisticated as this rascal are incapable of complex emotions. 

The cat’s favourite past time has switched from being an unholy demon to sleeping in inexplicable positions. It usually starts out as a tight blue ball, that majestic debris-shedding coat rising and falling in a relaxing rhythm. Then approximately sixteen minutes later, it slowly shifts onto its back, exposing a soft belly that is just begging for fingers to stroke through the surprisingly white-tinted fur. 

Loki’s eyebrows scrunches together. He meant to think knife, not fingers. 

Those four little paws with their grey and pink toe beans twitch in the air, reaching out to some imaginary prey in its fantasies (most likely the rest of Loki’s fingers). The cat occasionally parks across one of the open tomes without his notice, but he does not feel compelled to shout or resort to violence, instead just nudges it away as one might do to a shedding ball. 

(And if he did sink his fingers into that soft belly – well, no one knows besides the cat, which stirred from its slumber to wrap its paws around his fingers and chew them.) 

Loki has no idea how the cat has not starved to death, because he guarded his food obsessively prior to the truce. Since that thought intruded into his mind, he has been leaving scraps from the meals he could not finish. Which is often. He blames it on his recuperating body. 

The cat happily gobbles up whatever it is given. In some sick sense of gratitude, it sets an alarming number of dead white mice at the foot of Loki’s bed every morning. He is not sure which is more appalling: that there is an unknown hole in his safe house, or that the cat finds mice in an area where there should only be rats. He finds it easier to just pet its head weakly and discreetly dispose of the offerings. 

Overall, aside from his slow recuperation, life with a freeloader has been calming down. So it should not be a surprise that when the tension begins to settle from his shoulders, his sleeping mind decides to frolic in the hall of unwanted memories. 

It is freezing. He knows because his breaths come out in white puffs and frost drapes over his eye lids, but he does not feel it. He pinches his palm. He is numb. 

The frozen wasteland fades into the dark horizon. A pinprick of light flickers weakly in the distance. He has been trudging through the snow ever since he found himself here, but the light grows no larger. 

The outline of a woman sharpens as he plods. A halo of curls around her head, robes flowing from her body, that sharp nose he would recognise anywhere – 

“Mother…” The utterance slips from his parted lips as the figure turns to him. 

Frigga, the Queen of Asgard, wife of the Allfather. The mother he once loved. The moment her eyes land upon him, she recoils in shock and revulsion. Loki looks down at his hands. The Aesir façade has melted away into the blue Jötunn hide, the perfectly manicured nails replaced by grotesque claws. He knows his eyes are a shade of repulsive red. 

“But you knew…” He struggles to find his voice, “You knew what I was all along and now that I lose my skin, you…” 

The Queen turns away. His nails tear into his palms. The ground yawns open and swallows him. He is falling, falling burning scorching, the Bifrost receding into the distance, the Allfather’s betrayal _(No, Loki)_ ringing in his ears, soft long fur poking into his mouth – 

He splutters awake to the feeling of fur draped over his face, sticking into his nose and mouth. A deep rumbling permeates the frantic rhythm of his racing heart. 

Of all the places, this is where the cat chooses to sleep: in his locked room, on his head. 

He rolls onto his side, the little demon dislodging with a meow, spits out a mouthful of fur, wraps his arms around his head, and shuts his eyes. His heart takes quite a while to settle. 

The next morning greets him with a ball of warmth pressed against his chest. He stares at the slumbering creature, mesmerised by the slow rise and fall of its body, and reaches out to stroke its fur in an almost tender way. He did not think he would miss his Kjorer stag, or wonder about how the feline creatures are faring with caretaker suddenly gone. All that he has abandoned at Asgard: the libraries, his research, his animal companions, his – mother… 

The cat tilts its head to observe the exiled prince burying his face into its fur, watching protectively like a benevolent overlord. The non-hooman has finally acknowledged its authority, and all is well in the universe.


End file.
